


That Dream is Slipping Away

by Fire_Bear



Series: Hang Cool Teddy Bear [13]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Conflict Resolution, Drinking, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, M/M, Resolution, World Meeting (Hetalia)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 10:46:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Bear/pseuds/Fire_Bear
Summary: Several months after England had broken off their relationship, America is struggling.





	That Dream is Slipping Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sadaf_Awesome](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sadaf_Awesome/gifts).



> This is a sequel to [There Ain't No Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514349) which someone requested I do for Christmas. I already had an idea for it but I didn't really know how to end it.
> 
> Thankfully, I worked it out, though I will say I have no ideas for a continuation.

America lay on his side, watching England rouse from sleep. He’d been awake for a while, looking at him. England was adorable when he slept, face relaxed in a way that made him look centuries younger. Whenever he was awake, he always looked as though he had lived through hell and was still fighting against the demons.

Sometimes he wondered if he looked like that, too.

At the moment, England was shifting, his knee knocking against America’s leg as he blinked. America loved this bit the most: those eyes of his were incredible, beautiful, precious gems. Grinning at him, America lifted a hand to brush his knuckles against England’s cheek. It made England smile sleepily, his eyes fluttering as he fought to keep them open.

“Mm. America?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep. It sent a shiver down America’s spine which he expertly kept hidden.

“’Morning, beautiful,” America replied. “I want to kiss you.”

England's smile widened and he chuckled. “So you woke me up, just for that?”

“Yeah,” mumbled America, leaning toward him. England tilted his head slightly to meet him and their lips brushed before they pressed more firmly together. Gently, America cupped the back of England's head as he deepened the kiss, their tongues pushing against each other’s. A muffled noise of pleasure from England had America shifting closer, chasing it.

“’Merica,” England groaned against his lips. “Let me ride you.”

“Yeah,” America breathed, panting. “Yeah.”

Obediently, he rolled onto his back, his grip on England dragging the elder with him. England laughed at that and pulled away from him. America pouted and England gave him a fond look and a peck on his lips. It made America tingle, made warmth spread through him.

“Patience, love,” said England and crawled over him. His lithe, naked body swayed above him, showing off the muscles England had. America couldn’t resist reaching out, touching them, drawing his hands over each plane of smooth skin. It made England shudder as he drew close enough to give America a quick kiss. “Let me just…” he murmured.

The next thing America knew, England was bouncing up and down above him, each movement sending pleasure and warmth throughout America. It made him moan and groan and buck his hips. England met them every time. His eyes were dark, his cheeks were flushed, a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. The sight had America gasping, clutching at England's hips tighter.

Leaning over him, England gripped America’s face with both his hands. America blinked up at him, panting. “What…?” he murmured, trying to catch his breath.

“It’s time,” England told him.

“Huh?”

England smiled at him and opened his mouth. His lips moved but all America could hear were his panting breaths, the blood rushing in his ears, the beeping of what England was saying. America’s brow furrowed, confused. England saw that and laughed, his laughter suddenly a beeping noise instead of his own, beautiful one. That only served to alarm America further.

“What? England? What’s going on?”

Again, England spoke. All that came out was that beeping noise. The longer England spoke, the more America was able to recognise the sound, the exact pitch and frequency of the beeps. It sounded exactly like…

A sudden, passionate kiss.

America’s heart aching.

His alarm alerting him to the fact that he was five minutes late.

America jerked awake, hard and sweating, tangled in his sheets. The sun illuminated the room, shining through the curtains and the gap between them. A beam shone onto the wooden door of his wardrobes. Posters from old films and new, from NASA and various other American institutions, all decorated his walls. On the bedside table next to him, his alarm clock was vibrating closer and closer to the edge.

Groaning, America slammed his hand onto the clock, instantly smashing it. Cursing under his breath, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He let out another, louder groan. It had been months since England had ended… whatever they had been before. Months since he had figured out his feelings for the older nation. And, for the last few weeks, he had woken every day in the same way.

He supposed that was probably because another World Meeting was coming up. Ever since the one in Italy, he hadn’t seen England outwith the meetings they attended with their leaders. In a couple of days, the nations would meet in Toronto and there would be several days that he could potentially spend with England - if England would allow it. Every time America stopped working, he would think about England, about what they could do together, about what he could say to apologise to him, about how to sweep him off his feet and say how much he loved him.

But, for the moment, America was late and had to take care of a little problem.

* * *

As usual, the first meeting took forever and they didn’t get to discuss everything they wanted to. That was why it was always held over a week. America had been his usual cheerful self, trying to ignore the dirty looks he still sometimes got from France or Norway whenever he bickered with England. However, he wasn’t sure how he was going to get through the rest of the time they’d be there. Not only had England been put on a different floor from him, he had also chosen to sit next to Portugal.

And they seemed to be getting along _very_ well.

All throughout the meeting, whenever everyone had devolved into silly arguments and presentations, America had seen England quietly talking with Portugal, body turned towards the Iberian nation. They had chuckled at something once. Then, just before the lunch break, America had glanced over and found himself staring at where England and Portugal had intertwined their fingers, clutching at each other on the top of the table.

So America thought that it was perfectly acceptable to head straight to a bar once the meeting was adjourned. Of course, he had barely sat down with his drink when Canada suddenly appeared across from him. Having just taken a sip of his drink, America couldn’t help but spit it out, spraying it across the table. Wincing, he hastily grabbed the tiny napkin that the barman had handed to him with his glass and frantically wiped at the mess.

“I’ve told you before to warn me when you do that!” America exclaimed.

“I followed you in!” Canada protested as Kumajirou plopped his head down into Canada’s lap.

“I didn’t see you,” grumbled America, lifting his glass again.

“Probably ’cause you were too busy thinking about England.” Canada nodded at America’s beer. “That’s what _that’s_ about, isn’t it?”

“ _No_ ,” America insisted.

“Haven’t you spoke to him?”

“Not since…”

“Venice?” asked Canada, eyebrows raised. “Haven’t you been to England in the past few months?”

“Yeah, but… not to… _talk_.” America sighed and set down his glass, staring at it. “I love him. I just- I’ve made a big mistake. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Have you tried talking to him since you got here?”

“No,” America admitted. “I don’t… I wanted to wait till I saw him in the meeting, to gauge if he was in a good mood or not.”

“So why didn’t you ask him to dinner?” Canada asked, absentmindedly beginning to stroke Kumajirou’s head.

“Didn’t you see the way he was with Portugal? He’d probably just blow me off.”

“I don’t think that’ll come to anything, America. You need to talk to him.”

“Well, not just now.” America picked up his drink again and downed the rest of his beer. When he put the glass back down, he contemplated the way he could see the table through it. He had finished it way faster than he’d thought. Grimacing, he looked up at Canada to see him looking consternated. “Maybe not tonight,” America added.

* * *

Yet, a few hours later, when America had drunk way too much despite Canada’s insistence that he either pace himself or stop, America found himself on a different floor of the hotel. Or, more specifically, on the floor he knew England was staying on. He wasn’t too drunk that he didn’t know what he was doing, thankfully - that would require a lot more alcohol than Canada was willing to let him consume. But it was just enough to sweep away all his doubts and insecurities about his relationship with England.

Canada was right: he _did_ need to talk to England.

So, without any hesitation, he raised a hand and knocked on England’s door. At least, he hoped it was England’s door. Some memory told him that it was room 3 on the third floor. He didn’t know where he’d prised the information from - Canada? The receptionist? Another passing nation? America pushed aside his puzzlement as the door opened.

England stood there, hair messier than usual, rubbing at one eye. The other seemed bleary, as if he’d been woken. He was wearing his silk, green pyjamas, all buttoned up. It was the most adorable sight America had ever seen, even though he’d walked in on England like that before.

“Wow,” America murmured.

At his voice, England froze and the one uncovered eye widened. He looked up and stared at America, letting his hand drop. Lips parting, he took in a shaky breath and America’s heart ached. England being upset was entirely his fault. Eventually, he spoke. “America?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” he replied, grinning at him. “I came to see you.”

For a moment, England swayed. America thought he was about to step aside for him and nearly cheered. Instead, England’s eyes narrowed. “What do you _want_?” he demanded.

“You,” America instantly replied.

“Wha-? For _what_?”

“Just you.”

“America…” said England, his tone a warning. His brow was furrowed so deeply that his eyebrows were almost touching. America thought it was funny and cute, but something about England’s closed-off posture had him reconsidering voicing anything about it.

“I love you,” he said instead.

England’s sharp intake of breath was loud in the space between them. Now his eyes were wide and… hurt? America frowned at that. Why would him telling England how he felt hurt England? That made very little sense. Maybe he should go the Hollywood route and draw him into a deep, passionate kiss.

“Are you _mocking_ me?” England suddenly hissed.

“Wha-? Noooo!” America protested, slurring his words a little. “I really do love ya.” He reached out for England, somewhere in his mind telling him to still try the loving kiss.

Instead, England batted his hand away. “Don’t! Don’t _touch me_ .” Something about his expression gave even America pause, blinking at him. It looked almost as if England was… in _anguish_. Like that day… in the rain…

“No, England,” America said, alarmed and upset. He had never wanted to see England look like that ever again. So he reached for him once more. That time, England saw him coming and shoved him away. Normally, America would barely budge. But, in his current state, he stumbled away from England who, when America was able to raise his gaze from the floor and look, appeared to be shocked.

“You’re _drunk_ ,” he said, tone accusatory.

“So?” said America, tilting his head in confusion. What did that matter?

“It’s obvious you don’t _mean_ it when you say you ‘love’ me.”

“I do too!”

“You’re confused,” England told him, not looking at America now. “You’re mistaking the alcohol for ‘love’.”

America stared at him. Was he really? Could people really do that? Then he remembered why he had started drinking in the first place and realised that that wasn’t the case. He shook his head, hoping it would clear it a little. “No. I really do love you, England. And I want you and need you. Just like I said I did.”

“Stop it!” England looked up at him and America had to suck in a breath, the action difficult as it caught in his throat. Now, England’s expression was hurt, _pleading_ , as if he was begging America. It made America’s heart ache and his entire body twitched with the desire to hug him. “Just- Enough! Whatever… Whatever this is, it won’t work out. We’re not good for each other. Haven’t you noticed how much we hurt each other? The way we-” England paused and took a deep breath. “We started that relationship, whatever it was, in trying times. And we never really discussed what we were doing, so it’s no wonder that it stopped working, when we both had different ideas of what was happening.”

“Wait, England,” said America, voice quieter than normal. His words sounded a lot like something with a sense of finality - like they were over for good. “I really do love you. And even if I realised that a little late-”

England sighed heavily, slicing through America’s train of thought. “Really, America. I taught you better than that, didn’t I?”

“Wha-? Don’t bring that up now!” America snapped, trying to push aside the memories that threatened to overwhelm him, including the feelings that had swamped him all those centuries ago. The feelings that he’d pushed aside and used and grown into and forgotten about until… Tears pricked at his eyes and he finally got hold of England, his hands curving around England’s biceps. “Please. I love you. Isn’t that enough to fix this?”

Expression shifting, England stared at him. Then he winced - at the pain or the smell of alcohol, America didn’t know - and, with a mighty shove, he pushed America away from him. America stumbled and couldn’t stop his momentum until he’d bumped into the opposite wall. Eyes wide, he looked up at England. He was horrified by what he saw there: a haughty, dismissive expression, just like he’d had in their first interactions since that day, centuries ago.

“No,” England said, with the sort of tone that made pain shoot through America, and England slammed his door shut.

* * *

“Now, here’s a sight you don’t often see,” said a voice - France.

America groaned, sinking further down his chair. He knew what France was talking about. After drinking so much to get _that_ drunk, America had woken with a hangover. He’d only had them once or twice before and he hated it every time - and he had a chaotic meeting to get through. His head was pounding, he felt nauseous and he also had to suffer through watching England and Portugal sitting closer than ever, talking quietly.

England hadn’t even looked at him once.

“So?” France continued, pulling out the chair next to America. “What has brought on your session of self-pitying?”

“‘M’not,” America mumbled, petulantly.

“You are. If you have a hangover at a meeting, you usually power through it with sheer power and force of will.” France leaned over to poke at America’s elbow. “You don’t usually look like this.”

“‘M’ _fine_.”

“Hm. Really?”

Groaning, America rolled his head to the side so he was facing away from France. He heard France chuckle. Through bleary eyes, he found himself watching England again. His heart ached as he remembered the night before. It really sounded as though America no longer had any sort of chance to get him back.

“Will you tell me why you drank enough to have a hangover?” France asked.

America huffed out a breath and forced himself to sit up, wincing as the light hit him once again. He wished he’d brought some shades so he could block it out. When he looked over at France, he saw that he was smiling at him in silent encouragement. Ever since the day he and England had stopped their relationship, France had been picking and choosing when he wanted to speak with America. The older nation was probably trying to support both of them, which would have been difficult.

The only person America had spoken to about his dilemma was Canada and all he had said was that he should speak to England. But that hadn’t worked whatsoever, so maybe France could help him - if there was any sort of chance for him any more. “It’s…” he began, slowly, hesitantly. “It’s England.”

“Ah. Isn’t it always?” France said.

Blinking, America frowned at him, trying to puzzle out what he meant by that. He gave up when pain pierced his forehead again and, wincing, decided to move on. “I… didn’t realise till… _that day_ that I…”

“You love him?” France suggested and smiled when America nodded. “Canada told me about it. But… England is a hard person to please. Especially when he’s hurt and angry.”

“I know,” America said, sighing. “And yesterday, I saw…” He trailed off and tilted his head towards England and Portugal. France glanced over and hummed his understanding. “So I got super drunk last night and then…” America grimaced. “I went to his room and told him I love him again. But… I dunno. It wasn’t enough for some reason.”

“Hmm,” said France, raising a hand to curl a thumb and forefinger around his chin. “What did he say?”

“That he thought I was mocking him, that it wouldn’t have worked out anyway, that I’d been ‘taught better’,” America recited. Everything England had said had been circling in his head since the night before.

France pondered on that for a little while longer. “I think that England may be being wary. He fears being rejected for a _third_ time.”

“‘Third time’?” America asked, confused. “When did I-?” He broke off, realisation dawning. England’s expression each time America had tried to tell him that he loved him and… “Oh, no,” he breathed, hearing the echo of a downpour, mixed with the noise of a battle. “I- Shit.”

“Oui,” said France, sounding almost amused and definitely exasperated. “And he probably resents you trying to wedge yourself between him and any nation that England happens to favour that week. Perhaps he thinks you don’t respect him.”

“What?!” America exclaimed - and immediately winced. When he glanced over, he saw that Portugal had looked up, but England was staring stubbornly at his notes. He lowered his voice and turned back to France. “Of course I respect him!” he told France. “I- He’s- He’s _awesome_.”

“I am merely pointing out that _he_ doesn’t think so. Have you, perchance, tried to speak with him since that day?”

“Of course I- Ah.” Suddenly, America realised what France was getting at. He’d tried to speak with him quite frequently and been ignored or rejected or forced to endure formal meetings instead of what he truly wanted. Not once had he thought about what England wanted to happen or whether it was upsetting him to have America pop up all the time.

“Remember, America,” said France. “There are two of you in this relationship.” He patted America’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze and began to walk off, heading towards his seat. A few steps away, however, he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Oh, and, do try to remember that England _has_ always loved you.”

Guilt swept through America. His gaze sought England once France had left completely. He found him laughing at something Portugal was saying, his smile wide and gleaming. There was a way to fix this, America knew, and he would do so as soon as possible.

* * *

Once everyone had retreated to their rooms for the night, after all the group dinners that America had avoided and the private ones he’d turned down, he found himself in front of England’s door once again. He took a deep breath and, feeling a lot more nervous than he thought he would be, he knocked on the door. There was a pause, much longer than the night before. England was probably remembering that disaster and was reluctant to answer.

Eventually, though, the door opened, just enough to see through, and England peered around it. He scowled when he noticed America. “What the hell are _you_ doing here?” he demanded.

“I need to talk to you,” America told him.

“Apparently you ‘need’ a lot of things,” England retorted, eyes narrowing further.

“Then, _we_ need to talk,” America amended. “But, if you don't want to, I’ll go back to my room and wait for you.”

That seemed to startle England: he jerked a little, the door shifting with the movement, and stared in amazement. “You… You aren't Canada, are you? I know I sometimes mix the two of-”

“No. It’s really me.”

“Huh.” England opened the door a little wider. Again, he was in those pyjamas. It was still the most adorable thing America had ever seen and his heart ached. England, meanwhile, looked America up and down. “You are.” There was a pause while America struggled to think of what to say in response to that. England broke the silence. “Well? What do you want?”

America almost said ‘you’ but managed to stop himself at the last moment. “It’s important. Can we talk inside?”

The door swung over again. “You’re just trying to get me in bed,” England accused him.

“Wha-?! No, no! That's the last thing on my mind!” Though, now that England had mentioned it, America _was_ thinking of it. He remembered the kisses and touches and could imagine how good it would feel when England allowed him in once again…

“Hmm.” For a moment, England seemed about to reject America once again. America braced himself, hoping it wouldn't come to that. Then, all of a sudden, the door opened and England stepped aside. “Fine. Get in here.”

Relieved, America hurried in. He glanced around, looking for somewhere they could both sit. But, just like in his own room, there was only a cosy armchair besides the bed. Everything was neat and tidy, like it always was wherever England went. America had sometimes joked that England should get a job as a cleaner: England had always pouted until America had laughed and kissed it away.

He wished he could do that now.

Instead, he turned to England who still stood by the door, no doubt to throw him out once America had said what he’d wanted. His arms were folded across his chest. To most people, he would look angry, with his brows furrowed like that; the way he was hunched in on himself let America know that England was actually trying to protect himself from whatever was happening. It made America yearn to bundle him into his arms and keep everyone from hurting him. But that included America himself and he could only clench his fists at his side.

“So?” asked England, his tone sharp and dismissive. “What is it?”

America took a deep breath, preparing himself for what he had to do. “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Once again, England looked startled.

“I’m sorry,” America repeated. “I treated you very badly and you _so_ did not deserve it. I willfully ignored my feelings _and_ yours. I was in denial and I hurt you. And for all of that, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for… for, well, harassing you afterwards. Not to mention last night…” America grimaced.

“Oh.” England's grip on his arms loosened and he straightened. “Well. That was very mature of you, America.”

“But I still have to say…” America took another deep breath and looked England in the eye. “I love you.”

Seemingly shocked, England dropped his arms. “I-! You-! Ame-”

“I do. I honestly do. But you don't need to respond.” America faltered then and ducked his head. “I-I don't expect you to. Not after… everything. And- And… if you decide to be with someone else, I understand.” He forced his head up so he could look at England. “I’ll respect your decision.”

They stared at each other for a while. England was wide-eyed. His jaw worked as he attempted to speak and frown and refuse to speak all at the same time. (At least, that's what it seemed like to America.) So, when England managed to say, “America…” in a strange tone, America knew he had to leave.

“Right,” he said, far too loud. “I’d better go. I know… I know you don't want me here. So… I’m just gonna… Yeah.” He knew he sounded super lame and that the gestures he was doing looked weird but he ignored all of that in favour of stepping awkwardly towards the door.

It was only when he had passed England that the older nation moved. Without any sort of warning, he spun and grabbed America’s elbow, stopping him in his tracks. When America turned to him, England was looking at the floor, his cheeks pink as he scowled at nothing. “It can't go back to the way it was,” he snapped.

“Huh?”

England took a shaky breath and looked up. His expression softened and, slowly, he began to smile. It was so small and yet big enough to have America’s heart thundering. “I… I believe you,” England told him. “And I… Of course I still… love you. But…” England grimaced. “We can’t rush this. And we can't _just_ have sex. Not any more.”

“That’s fine!” America said in a rush, amazed that he was getting this second chance. “More than fine. Amazing! I mean… Um.”

He stopped when England laughed, bright and cheerful. “Then come to dinner with me.”

“What, now? Have you not eaten? Why not? Are you feeling okay?” America asked in worry.

Again, England laughed, looking quite delighted. “No, you idiot! Tomorrow, after the meeting.”

“Oh. Right…” America could feel the entirety of his body begin to tremble with excitement and glee. “Yes!” he exclaimed, throwing a fist into the air in celebration.

“Good,” said England. “Now, get out so I can sleep.”

“But…” America pouted. However, when England narrowed his eyes, America hastened to add, “Aren’t we gonna… talk or something? That's it?”

England sighed. “This is Hollywood's influence, isn't it?” he said.

“I just thought it’d take longer…” America mumbled.

Shaking his head, England strode over to America. His heart skipped a beat, imagining the kiss England was going to give him, feeling desperate for it. Instead, England grabbed hold of his arm and dragged him back to the door. “There will be none of that,” England told him, sternly. “If you stay, it’ll make matters worse. I…” He paused, looking away. “I need to calm down a little. Now, go!”

“Okay, okay,” America grumbled, allowing England to guide him into the hallway.

He expected England to let go of him and close the door in his face. Instead, England used his grip to pull America back towards him at the last second. America was so startled that he allowed him to do so and soon found soft lips pressed against his cheek. It made him feel giddy with happiness and anticipation. Maybe England would force them to go slow, but they’d get there in the end.

“I’ll see you after the meeting,” England murmured into America’s ear. And, with that, England slammed his door shut, leaving America to float away to his own room, wide grin on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> I know England seems to have forgiven America very quickly here, but his resolve has been crumbling for months now with America's constant calling. He's been wanting to forgive him and go back to him for a while but he's been resisting as much as possible.


End file.
